


they came from middletown, new jersey!

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining, Werewolves, plot-significant instances of carly rae jepsen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 17:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18975130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: Brock isn’t saying that his life is turning into one of those weird, popular summer blockbusters about teenagers making out with vampires and shit, except that it is. He’d title his movie A New Jerseyan Werewolf in Raleigh, maybe.





	they came from middletown, new jersey!

**Author's Note:**

> bandwagons, bro. 
> 
> thank you to greymichaela and moliver for beta! thank you to dalmatienne for tricking me into loving the canes. this fic is dedicated to brass bonanza (big beats remix). 
> 
> enjoy xoxo

Trevor spends about half of training camp rolling around in the grass with a disturbing level of enthusiasm. 

Everything Trevor does is with a disturbing level of enthusiasm and earnestly well-meaning fervor. He also alternates between being unfairly good at playing the body and drinking his bodyweight in red Gatorade. Haydn joins him in all of these activities except the Gatorade, where he prefers the orange, because he’s weird. 

Brock spends about two seconds thinking about any of that, and then lays it aside to focus on training because he’s under no illusions about his place on the team and whether he needs to earn it. He can get there if he just grinds hard enough and trying to decide if the crow’s feet at the corners of Trevor’s eyes are adorable or _mega_ adorable qualifies as a serious distraction. 

He makes the team and Trevor smiles at him after the whole media circus and Brock allows himself to think, once and very faintly, _nice_.

-/-

Trevor settles into the seat next to him and Brock barely has time to really process that he suddenly has a seatmate before they’re taxiing for takeoff and his stomach is lurching up like it wants to climb out of his mouth and he has to clutch the armrests until the little swell of anxiety leaks back out of his chest.

When he blinks it away, Trevor’s looking at him apologetically. 

“Sorry,” Trevor whispers, like it’s not the middle of the afternoon and Martinook isn’t already rounding up a group for a hand of poker at the top of his lungs. There’s no reason to whisper. Brock smiles and he knows it’s probably a little watery, but only a little. 

“No worries,” Brock whispers back, because Trevor’s leaning in close and he’s wearing some kind of aftershave that’s woody and bluntly sweet in his nose. Brock is trying to avoid taking a deep breath. “S’just takeoff. I’m fine.” 

Trevor pats his arm sympathetically and dips to rummage around in his go-bag. Brock looks away, out the window at Raleigh receding below. It’s just a short hop over to DC, just the preseason, but sweet, anxious anticipation is building in his gut anyway. It’s their season, he can feel it. 

An elbow catches his and he glances over. Trevor’s offering him an earbud and Brock takes it without comment. 

“Is this-,” he realizes after a moment. 

“ _I really really really really really really like you,_ ” Carly Rae Jepsen wails in one ear. Trevor grins at him, broad and mischievous, every one of his bizarre teeth on display. 

“Wanna say something about it?” he asks dangerously and, wow, Brock did not need to know how much that does it for him. He decides that retreat is the better part of valor and shakes his head. 

The song kind of slaps, anyway.

-/-

He and Trevor… like, they’re teammates and all, and apparently seatmates on airplanes since Trevor’s decided to claim the real estate next to Brock in the name of himself and Carly Rae Jepsen. Brock’s listened to Call Me Maybe more in the past month than he ever had in 2012.

But they’re not, like, bring each other locker room snack buddies that Brock had been aware of. 

“Gotcha something,” Trevor says and hands Brock a little paper-wrapped package, greasy and smelling of delicious and un-diet-friendly cheese product. 

"Uh," Brock says and looks down at the cheeseburger in his hand. It's from McDonald's. There's mustard on the bun. "Thanks, Trev."

Trevor smiles at him and wanders away without saying anything else. 

"This is not in the diet plan," Brock says to the closest person, who happens to be Justin Williams. Justin Williams looks at him, inscrutable. Brock waits for him to say something in case it ends up being wise. He’s got this theory about dudes still playing when they’re going gray. Separate from his theory that it’s kind of hot, he means. 

"Well, don't throw it away where the kid can see," is all Williams ends up saying. "Just make him sad." 

Which makes sense to Brock, insofar as anything ever does. When Trevor sees him eating it across the locker room, the grin he flashes is absolutely brilliant, and totally worth how the trainer that catches him spends like fifteen minutes lecturing him as he finishes it.

-/-

Jake is not really his rookie. He’s a rookie and he lives in Brock’s spare bedroom, but he’s not _Brock’s_ rookie.

Brock is honestly pretty happy about that. He’s in no way ready to give up the occasional bouts of drinking himself stupid in his living room and watching episodes of Adventure Time with all the lights off, which he suspects is not mentorly behavior. He also suspects he doesn’t have any real advice to offer other than ‘don’t hit the goal post’. 

Jake is basically a cool roommate who’s five years younger than him and has to pretend he’s not mooching drinks off the older teammates willing to buy for him when they all go out. 

“I was never that bad,” he says, watching Jake strike out horribly with the extremely pretty blonde at the end of the bar. He’s grinning cheerfully as he’s turned down, at least. 

“Nah, you were worse,” Slavin says. 

Brock scowls and, when Jake wanders back over, steals his drink when he isn’t looking. Vengeance is sweet and in this instance passion fruit flavored.

-/-

Trevor is a touchy drunk.

This is not news to Brock or to anyone. Trevor isn’t a subtle touchy drunk, either. The number of times he’s climbed Dougie, who is the only remaining person with the combined patience and lack of self-preservation instinct to allow it, is without measure. Drunk Trevor operates on the logic that the closer he is to a person, the happier they’ll be to see him. 

Brock tries not to encourage this, because he has some self-respect left, even though Drunk Trevor is entirely correct. 

“Brock,” Trevor shouts in his ear. 

Brock winces. Trevor’s managed to squirm his way over to plaster himself all over Brock’s shoulder. And his chest, and he’s also starting to make enterprisingly sneaky inroads towards Brock’s lap. Brock is a little scared for his life. 

“Hey, Trevor,” he says unsteadily. He’s a little buzzed, but not really drunk. Mostly it’s the way Trevor’s nose is just brushing the hollow behind his ear. Brock is absolutely terrified to turn his head. 

Sepe is watching him from across the table, chin in hand, untouched beer sweating condensation at his elbow. There’s something horrible and thoughtful about his expression. 

_Help_ , Brock mouths at him. 

Sepe smiles a pointy, knowing little smile and turns back to whatever Teuvo is trying to tell him in incoherently drunk Finnish. 

“Brock,” Trevor says again, a little quieter at least. He’s still a very warm, very squirmy weight and it’s still very, very distracting. He’s rubbing his cheek against Brock’s shoulder. “Brock, hey man, _Brock_ , hey.” 

“What’s up, bud?” Brock asks feebly and manages to steer the glass with the dregs of his beer around Trevor’s attempts to conquer him like he’s climbing a mountain so he can have a drink. 

“You smell good,” Trevor says earnestly. 

Brock probably smells like locker room soap. Maybe Irish Spring, if he’d thought ahead after the game, although he fatalistically realizes he almost definitely hadn’t. More realistically, he probably smells like game-sweat and his pads. There is no chance it’s a good combination. 

“Thanks,” Brock mumbles and wishes for another beer. Maybe one of the very pink cocktails at Dougie’s elbow Andrei is stealing sips from. Those look alcoholic enough to help him deal with this. “Dude.” 

“I wanna go dance,” Trevor decides abruptly and climbs right over Slavin to get out of the booth. He manages to avoid kicking Brock in the nuts or crushing Slavin’s dick, _barely_ , and then he’s gone. Brock’s shoulder is suddenly very cold. 

Petr is watching him from the back corner of the booth, he realizes, when he manages to extract his face from his hands. So is Curtis sitting right next to him, both of them wearing eerily similar inscrutable weird goalie stares. They don’t say anything, but Curtis quirks a thin little smile. Brock puts his face back in his hands. 

His cheeks are burning. At least he doesn’t have a boner, because Petr and Curtis staring at him while he has a boner is pretty far up there for the most terrifying thing he can think of.

-/-

They’re up by three in the second, a minute of power play to go, and Brock throws himself back onto the bench. He’s panting, longest shift he’s been on all game. Even with the Oilers’ shit season and the lead the Canes have, McDavid is a weapon and a threat, and line changes are risky. He’s winded and has to put his head between his knees for a second, which is how he misses the beginning of the fight. Misses whatever Lucic said to get Trevor to drop gloves, because he must have said something.

All he knows is everyone’s suddenly on their feet around him, sticks against the boards, and when he shoves himself upright it’s in time to watch Lucic punch Trevor in the eye and Trevor hit the ice and not get up again. 

He’s shouting, he’s aware of that distantly. He’s not sure what, if he’s even saying anything coherent at all. The linesmen are on Lucic, dragging him away, and he can’t see through the scrum at all. He can’t see Trevor at all. 

When the refs get the fuck out of the way, Trevor is a crumpled mound of pads and skates on center ice. 

Brock doesn’t go over the boards, mostly because Dougie has a deathgrip on the back of his jersey. He doesn’t let himself keep shouting either. He’s holding it together as Jordan bends over Trevor, and Brock can see even from here how hesitant Jordan’s hands are in trying to help Trevor up. 

Trevor gets to his knees, and then to his skates, wobbly like a newborn fawn. 

Brock works not to break his stick against the boards because they need a game misconduct like Brock needs a hole in his head. Trevor is fine. He’s skating to the trainers and he’s disappearing down the tunnel, but it’s under his own power, and he’s fine.

-/-

Brock is shaking when he comes off the ice. It’s one part exhaustion, three parts adrenaline, and ten parts useless, directionless _something_ , a spiky mass in his chest. He fumbles his helmet at the doorway and it clatters to the ground and he keeps going anyway because he’s a little worried he might kick it across the locker room like a kid having a tantrum if he stops.

He’s having a tantrum, maybe, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t look like it yet. 

No one talks to him when he sits in his stall, head down, forcing himself to chug his water because he’ll be back on the ice soon and- 

A pair of ratty socks intrude on his vision and he looks up fatalistically. 

“Hey,” Trevor says, and he’s grinning breathlessly like he’s not getting the beginnings of a black eye. He’s holding Brock’s helmet. “Here, you dropped this.” 

"That was so dumb," Brock says. 

Trevor blinks at him. 

He looks kind of like a kicked puppy, suddenly. Even his hair is drooping. He looks okay, mostly okay, the trainers definitely wouldn’t have let him wander around the locker room if he weren’t, but he’s wearing his warm-up sweats and not his pads. 

"I was," Trevor begins and Brock shakes his head. 

He's _upset_ and he doesn't even know why but he really is. He's upset and it's not even with Trevor but it's about Trevor and he's the only one close enough to be mad at. 

"You shouldn't," he says and crosses his arms across his chest because there's something twisty and unpleasant in there like he's about to give birth to a chestburster or something. "You shouldn't have picked that fight."

Trevor looks at him some more. He looks like Brock feels, which is to say kind of confused and pissed off for no reason. He’s looking kind of pale except for the flush high along his cheekbones. 

“Well fuck you too, then,” he says unsteadily and throws Brock’s helmet at his feet and stalks away. Brock looks down at the helmet spinning in wobbly little circles, inches from his toes. He suddenly feels kind of nauseous, and still pissed off, and doubly confused. 

"Dude," Andrei says. 

"What?" Brock asks, looking at Andrei because he still doesn’t want to look at Trevor’s rigidly efficient movements as he stalks over to a trainer across the locker room and starts talking. 

Andrei frowns at him and shakes his head. 

"Dude," he repeats. The round mouthiness of his accent does absolutely nothing to blunt the disappointment in his tone. Brock scowls. For someone who’s barely old enough to buy porn, Andrei is doing a great impression of Brock’s mom. 

“What?” Brock asks again, aware he sounds sulky. 

Andrei just shakes his head and turns away to where he’s carefully draping his discarded, sweat-soaked Under Armour on Marty’s stall.

-/-

On the flight out of Edmonton, the seat next to Brock is empty. He doesn’t let himself look around to see where Trevor’s sitting instead, because he’s not going to be a loser like that.

He _does_ queue up Call Me Maybe, because it’s a good song. No other reason.

-/-

Trevor is mad at him.

Brock isn’t mad at Trevor anymore, and he admits to himself as he meets his own eyes in the toothpaste-stained bathroom mirror that he never really had been. Worried, definitely. Exhausted, for sure. Mad as _hell_ at the Oilers, which is par for the entire Edmonton course, and maybe a little mad at himself, but not mad at Trevor. 

He squints at the round, powdery little spatters of dried toothpaste on the mirror. Like, gross. He goes to grab the bleach spray and a rag. 

So Trevor won’t talk to him, he thinks very carefully, wiping the mirror down. It’s leaving streaky stains. He wipes harder. Trevor isn’t talking to him, and he isn’t really staying in the same room as Brock for longer than it takes to change out of his pads, and Brock kind of hates it. Ipso ergo, or whatever the fuck the saying is, Brock needs to make it up to him. 

“Are you trying to clean glass with bleach?” Jake asks from the doorway. Brock jumps and knocks over the spray bottle. 

“Um,” he says, when he’s scrambled to keep the toppled spray bottle from ending up in the toilet bowl. “Uh, like, maybe.” 

Jake eyes him. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and looking judgmental. 

“We have, like, a cleaning service,” he says. “You remember that, right? It’s, like, their job to clean up our shit.” 

“I’m being polite!” Brock defends. 

He’s half a decade older than Jake but _fuck_ , is he not feeling it right now. He is being disrespected in his own home. 

“You’re doing a shitty job,” Jake says unkindly. “Let the pros do it. Go have a breakdown doing something that won’t make our cleaning service’s jobs harder.” 

Which, fair enough. Brock knocks into Jake’s shoulder on the way past anyway though, just on principle. 

“I’m not having a breakdown!” he throws back over his shoulder and Jake laughs at him.

-/-

In times of stress and trouble, Brock likes to resort to the simple motto of WWJWD.

_What Would Justin Williams Do?_

It hasn’t steered him wrong before; Justin Williams is a kind and conscientious dad who runs the team with an optimistic and affectionate level of ruthless competency. When Brock grows up, he wants to be just as hot and responsible as Justin Williams. He’s got a ways to go, but he knows Justin Williams believes in him. 

Justin Williams would probably, he decides, lying on the living room carpet and staring up at the ceiling, take responsibility and apologize. Really adult shit. Building a healthy, functional relationship based on accountability and mutual respect. 

There’s a clump in the spackle on their ceiling that looks kind of like a face when Brock squints at it. He’s actually kind of impressed with his own ability to remember all the media buzzwords the PR intern keeps handing him worksheets about. 

“You’re being pathetic,” Jake says, resting his elbows on the back of their couch to peer at Brock. 

“I’m thinking,” Brock grouches. “Get me a cheese stick.” 

“Get your own fuckin’ cheese stick,” Jake says and doesn’t move. “Seriously, just apologize to Reimer. He’s sulking just as much as you and it’s harshing this whole situation.” 

“You harass me in my own bathroom and now you won’t get me a cheese stick,” Brock laments. “You’re the worst fuckin’ rookie. The worst roommate.” 

“ _Our_ bathroom,” Jake stresses. “You can’t just occupy our bathroom with your weird little emotional whatever. And I’m not your maid. Stop ruining our carpet with your emo crying and go talk to Trevor.” 

“I’m not having a breakdown,” Brock says and rolls over on his side away from Jake, crossing his arms for effect. “And I’m not having an emotion whatever.” 

“Whatever, brah,” Jake says. “I’m adding eyeliner to our shopping list for you.”

-/-

He goes to the grocery store because he is actually kind of scared that Jake will go and buy a couple of eyeliner pencils just to hammer his point home if he’s allowed to do the shopping. He’s not especially pleased that the rookie is bullying him.

The pop radio mix of Uptown Funk the ancient Kroger PA system is piping in fades out and then- 

Sweeping, epic synth horn. Brock freezes in the middle of the freezer aisle, eyes on the bags of peas. 

_You're stuck in my head, stuck in my heart,_ Carly sings, sound quality abysmal and echoing in the deserted Kroger. It’s a little bit Hitchcock, if Hitchcock had been born in the 90’s and had a predilection for 808’s and synth horn. 

“I’m being stalked by Carly Rae Jepsen,” he says to the peas. The woman at the end to the aisle gives him a weird look.

-/-

He does not begin his apology by asking if Trevor had somehow summoned the avenging spirit of 2012 Girl Power pop to make Brock feel bad for taking his poor emotional control out on Trevor. First of all, he’s trying to apologize, not make a total ass out of himself. Second of all, he’s genuinely kind of worried Trevor would say yes.

Instead he catches Trevor after he’d gotten into his sweats and before he’d gotten his shoes on, and therefore probably couldn’t outrun Brock if he decided to make a break for it. 

“Trevor, just a sec?” he opens with. He holds out both hands, palms up for some reason. He doesn’t question his instincts. 

Trevor is staring at him evenly. It’s even worse than if he were glaring; Brock hates that he can’t tell what Trevor’s thinking at all. 

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Brock says, very carefully. He is trying as he’s never tried before, here. He’s _attempting to communicate in an adult manner_. The fake Justin Williams who lives in his head and shakes his head in disappointment whenever Brock does something that real Justin Williams would disapprove of is, for once, nodding and smiling at him. “I was worried, but it was, uh, really shitty of me.” 

Trevor purses his lips and narrows his eyes at Brock. It is altogether a distracting expression. 

“It was really shitty,” he says at last. Brock nods along, trying not to seem too relieved to have gotten more than two words out of Trevor. _Being_ pathetic is never an excuse for _looking_ pathetic. 

“I’m really sorry,” he reiterates, just to be sure the thesis statement is obvious. He went to high school, alright, he knows this shit. 

Trevor examines him some more. The little purse to his lips is _really_ distracting. His bangs are falling in his eyes. Brock tries to focus on something other than like, any of that. 

“You were scared for me,” he says at last. 

Brock frowns. Trevor is right, but he doesn’t have to like it. 

“I wouldn’t say it like that,” he hedges, because his whole initiative in making up with Trevor and not fucking things up and generally being a better person kind of hinges on not telling massive, obvious lies. Trevor ignores him. 

“You were scared for me,” he sing-songs, and he’s starting to grin. All adorably uneven teeth and the mildly distracting fangs. Brock scowls. “C’mon, Ginner, admit it, you were _scared_ for me.” 

“I’m gonna start not feeling sorry for shit,” Brock says threateningly. Trevor crowds up on him, shoving him lightly. Brock crosses his arm and scowls harder and doesn’t let himself be moved. If his cheeks are kind of warm, so what. 

“You’re a liar,” Trevor coos. 

“I am not,” Brock grumbles and lets Trevor throw an arm around his shoulders. Trevor has a few inches on him and usually it’s hard to notice but right now it’s putting Brock at the perfect level to observe the fact that Trevor’s let himself get a little stubbly. This is not a fact Brock needs to know right now. 

“Whatever,” Trevor dismisses gleefully. “You totally got scared for me and then you missed me. You’re gonna buy me lunch, even.” 

“First Bean bullies me,” Brock grumbles but lets Trevor steer him to the door anyway. “And now you. This sucks.” 

“You’re letting your rookie bully you?” Trevor asks.

-/-

They’re winning more, they’re winning a _lot_ , and after last season it’s like being able to breathe again.

They’re doing a lot of drinking as a result. Or, the fun ones are. Brock is. Trevor definitely is. 

They’re in Florida and they’d fucked the Panthers up on their own ice and Trevor’s the kind of drunk which means he’d started falling over, which means someone had to take him back to the hotel. Which means, somehow, that Brock needs to sit out in the humid evening and let Trevor lean against his shoulder until the Uber comes to take them back to the hotel. 

Trevor sniffs him. It’s like, blatant. 

“Hey, bud,” Brock says faintly. “What’s up?” 

Trevor smiles at him brilliantly. It’s fucking _humid_ in Florida even in the dead of winter, and their Uber is taking approximately one hundred thousand years to get to them. The damp air is probably doing something horrifying to Brock’s hair, judging by how it’s starting to encroach on his own field of vision. He’s also a little sweaty which is, he’s aware, not his best look.

Trevor smiles at him anyway. Brock’s chest is all- warm and squirmy. Fucking chestbursters. 

If Trevor compliments him on his smell again, he’s going to lose his mind probably. 

Trevor twines their hands together and Brock jumps. His fingers thread expertly through Brock’s like this is something they’ve done often enough to be absentminded instead of the first time Brock’s held hands with anyone in, like, a year. It presses their wrists together and the thin skin of Trevor’s inner wrist is shockingly soft and hot against his. He can feel Trevor’s pulse, maybe, or he’s just mistaking the way his own heart is suddenly hammering in his chest. 

_Oh boy,_ he thinks, _oh boy, oh no, oh shit_.

“Um,” he croaks. His mouth is dry. His palm is probably sweaty. Trevor grins at him, blindingly bright and staggeringly drunk. 

“Buddy system,” he chirps. His eyes are glazed and kind of unfocused and he’s been chewing on his lip a little, judging by the way it’s all- red and wet-looking. Brock decides not to look at Trevor’s mouth anymore. 

“Kay,” he says feebly. “Bud.” 

Trevor beams the entire way to the Uber and keeps their hands tangled until they have to get out at the hotel and he bounds on ahead towards the elevators. 

Brock suspects he’ll be bright red for the rest of his natural life.

-/-

Brock had let himself into Trevor and Haydn’s apartment because Trevor’s stuck at the rink doing some minor PT and had demanded that Brock go grab him some nice clothes so they could go to lunch afterwards. Brock, because he is extremely unable to say no to Trevor, had stolen Trevor’s keys and gone to go get Trevor some nice clothes.

Which is how he’s now standing frozen in the entry to the apartment, staring down a wolf. 

He’s never seen a wolf look caught off guard before. 

“I’m, uh, sorry,” he says nonsensically. 

The wolf doesn’t move. It’s staring at him. He doesn’t think it’s breathing. It doesn’t look _threatening_ , exactly, so much as confused and kind of awkward. 

He’s never seen a wolf look awkward before, either. 

“I’m gonna, just, go,” Brock says nonsensically and starts backing for the door. He has no idea what a wolf is doing in Trevor’s apartment, and he has even less idea what he’s supposed to do about it. All he really does know is that being trapped in a five-room apartment in the middle of Raleigh, North Carolina with an apex predator isn’t ideal. “I’m gonna go? I’m gonna go.” 

The wolf makes a weird, un-wolflike noise, there’s a brief ripple of unpleasantly organic _something_ , and then a very naked Haydn Fleury is on his hands and knees in his own front hallway. 

“Um,” Brock says. 

Haydn coughs and scrambles to his feet. 

“Hey! Brock!” he says and smiles winningly. “Didn’t, uh, expect you here!” 

Brock sits down very hard on the ground.

-/-

“I really appreciate that you’re not freaking out about this,” Haydn says.

“No, I’m like, freaking out about this,” Brock assures him. “I’m definitely freaking out.” 

“You don’t seem like you’re freaking out, but okay,” Haydn says and squats gingerly next to him. He’d put on boxers at least, thank God, so his dick isn’t hanging out all over the place. Brock has enough to deal with already. 

“Trust me,” he says dizzily. He can’t look at Haydn directly and he can’t look away either, and it’s leaving his head bouncing from side to side like some kind of idiot pendulum. If he stops concentrating for too long, his breathing starts to speed up. “I am _super_ freaking out.” 

Haydn regards him for a minute. 

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re freaking out. You’re really polite about freaking out.” 

“Thanks,” Brock says. 

“It’s kinda weird,” Haydn continues and Brock laughs. It’s a little hysterical but controlling his breathing is starting to feel less like he’s wrestling with an alligator. If there’s a thought in his head, it sure isn’t making itself known to Brock. He doesn’t know how a person’s supposed to react to finding out that werewolves are real. If Haydn isn’t fucking with him, which he guesses he wouldn’t put past him, but Haydn isn’t a great liar. 

_What is he supposed to say?_

“I mean, I just found a wolf in your apartment,” he says. “And the wolf turned out to be you, so. My day is weirder than yours.” 

“Fair enough,” Haydn says and shifts awkwardly on his heels. He looks vaguely apologetic. “You really didn’t have any idea?” 

Brock stares at him and considers getting up. He’s still feeling kind of dizzy but the entry hall floor is linoleum and his ass is starting to go numb. Trevor’s probably waiting for him back at the rink, he thinks nonsensically, and then _is Trevor a werewolf too?_

“Did I have any idea that werewolves are real?” he asks. “No, Fleury, I didn’t fucking know that.” 

“Nothing from me or Trevor?” Haydn presses, which Brock guesses answers his question pretty handily. 

“No,” he says sourly. 

“You played with Bertuzzi for like, what, three years?” Haydn continues, frowning at him with what scarily might be genuine concern. “You didn’t notice anything? That kid’s the furthest thing from subtle.” 

“Bert?” Brock asks blankly. 

“Yeah, dude,” Haydn says earnestly and pats Brock’s shoulder. “Like, for _real_.” 

Haydn is a tool. 

“Bert’s a werewolf?” Brock asks. His voice comes out a little shrill. 

Haydn looks at him like he thinks Bert’s maybe taken one too many pucks to the helmet. Haydn is a _tool_. 

“Um, yeah?” he says. “Obviously?” 

Brock closes his eyes and counts to ten very slowly in his head. He isn’t totally sure why he’s suddenly about to flip his shit again. Except, maybe, the fact that he’s starting to suspect he has a type and that type is secret werewolves. 

_But Bert never said anything about this when we were exchanging shitty handjobs in Guelph,_ Brock manages not to say, and is proud of himself for that. 

“I think I need to go home for a while,” he says, staring up at the bland, spackle-speckled ceiling because he really can’t look at Haydn right now without wanting to just curl up in the fetal position or maybe cry. “You think you could tell Trevor I had to go home? I need to go home.” 

“You sure you’re good to drive?” Haydn asks after a moment. He sounds dubious. Brock blinks. One of the spackle marks above him looks like a big penis. The one next to it kind of looks like a lobster. He’s getting spots in his eyes because of the fluorescent lights. 

“Oh yeah,” he lies. “Totally good.”

-/-

_cant believe u didn’t tell me ur a werewolf_ , he texts Bert later, when he’s sufficiently buzzed and has had the chance to really absorb the fact that, apparently, werewolves are real.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. 

_lmao_ , Bert texts back, two hours later, when Brock’s blasted past tipsy and is hanging out at the corner of Blitzed Street and Shithoused Avenue. 

“I hate you,” Brock says to his phone, and hopes Bert can hear it. Fucking Sudbury boys, fucking Guelph. Fuck juniors, honestly, no fucking loyalty.

-/-

He wakes up laying half on the couch and half on the coffee table, which he’d pulled up next to the couch at some point in the night for reasons that are fuzzy to him at the moment. The trashcan from the kitchen is laying on its side next to his head. There’s an empty glass on the floor, and Brock’s clothes and couch are that particular kind of sticky damp that means he’d spilled something all over himself in the middle of the night and just passed right back out.

When he digs his phone out from under the TV, he hasn’t called anyone or sent anyone any drunk nudes so like, he’s doing pretty okay actually. 

He goes to throw up in the bathroom until he feels better.

-/-

Haydn responds to his demands for hangover brunch with about twenty cry-laughing emojis in a row and then the address to what turns out to be a cutesy diner much closer to Haydn’s apartment than Brock’s. Brock accepts it sulkily and tries not to be too obvious about wearing his sunglasses indoors.

“Good morning,” Haydn chirps at him but there’s a big steaming mug of coffee in front of him that he allows Brock to swipe and when Brock smiles queasily at the waitress, she smiles sympathetically right back and promises him extra whipped cream on his pancakes. 

“Good,” Brock grinds out hoarsely, “morning.” 

“You look like you had a fun night,” Haydn says blithely. Brock grunts at him and chugs half his glass of water and then starts sipping his coffee. He’s pretty sure the headache is starting to abate a little. Maybe. He can hope. 

The waitress comes back with his pancakes. There’s a little side of bacon with it that he does not recall ordering. Maybe he does look that rough. He puts more effort into the smile he gives the waitress while thanking her and she actually pats his shoulder as she leaves. 

He really _does_ look that rough. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t like, warn me not to tell the government or something,” he says, delicately cutting himself a square of pancake. He’s starved but his stomach is still rolling like it hasn’t decided whether he’s done throwing up yet. “Isn’t that the plot to every werewolf movie ever?” 

“Mostly the movies are about us killing and eating people,” Haydn says, with a tone that implies this does not in any way bother him at all. “But like, why bother, y’know? Who’d believe you, brah?” 

Brock frowns around his mouthful of pancake. 

“I’m reliable,” he says, and doesn’t even drip any syrup on himself. “And trustworthy and shit.” 

Haydn looks down his nose at Brock over his breakfast burrito. He apparently has not noticed it’s dripping orange taco-flavored grease all over his shirt yet. Brock does not elect to tell him. 

“You go tell Coach that Trevor is a werewolf right this second and see what happens,” he says, voice going nasal with how superior of an asshole he’s decided to be. “Give you forty bucks if he doesn’t just tell you to get the hell out of his office.” 

“Fuck you,” Brock mutters and stuffs more pancake in his mouth so he doesn’t need to talk.

-/-

Trevor jogs up to Brock in the locker room before practice and, completely without asking, starts patting him down with an efficiency that Brock finds mildly terrifying. It feels a little like Trevor’s been possessed by the spirit of a TSA officer.

At least it kind of distracts him from thinking about the werewolf thing for a singular second. Then Trevor is stepping back with crossed arms and narrowed eyes and abruptly Brock is picturing what he’d look like as a wolf and, damnit. 

“‘Scuse me?” he demands belatedly. 

“Checking to see what serious injury you got that kept you from coming to lunch with me, since I _know_ you didn’t just ditch me,” Trevor says. He’s looking down his nose at Brock and Brock probably outweighs him by a good twenty pounds but the couple of inches taller he is looks good on him. 

“I was, y’know, sick,” he says. 

He’s bright red. He can feel the heat of it in his cheeks. 

“Sick,” Trevor repeats. 

“I uh, threw up a lot,” Brock says truthfully. He doesn’t want to explain that he’d thrown up a lot because he’d tried to house an entire fifth of Tito’s with only a little help from his friend the Pepsi-Cola corporation. He can’t imagine it’ll go over well. 

Trevor frowns, but one of concern this time. His arms drop from their frankly confrontational fold across his chest. 

“Really?” he asks. “Are you okay-?” 

Which is when Haydn bursts into the locker room, spots them both, and throws himself at Brock in the span of about twenty seconds. Brock has time to wince and brace himself so he doesn’t fall over and that’s about it. 

“How’s the hangover?” Haydn asks cheerfully, working an arm around Brock’s shoulders. 

“Hangover, huh?” Trevor asks silkily. His expression is dangerous. 

“Um,” Brock says helplessly.

-/-

He calls Bert because he feels weird about bothering Haydn with his questions, and he also still isn’t done bitching at Bert for not telling him about the werewolf thing. Plus, he’s too keyed-up to nap and they have hours until game time. He’s bored as fuck and he’s already seen the Ancient Aliens special Discovery is playing on repeat.

“I’m not telling you about werewolf dick,” Bert opens with. He's laughing at Brock; Brock can tell despite the fact that Bert's in Calgary right now and therefore has the cell reception Brock is forced to assume one must be subjected to in Hell. It's staticky, is what he's saying. 

“I fucking hate you so much,” Brock says sincerely, and Bert laughs obnoxiously some more, way too close to the receiver. 

“You could never,” he says. “Hashtag Guelph Storm for life, brah. Special bonds.” 

“I’m gonna knock your ass into the stands next time we play Detroit,” Brock promises. Bert blows a raspberry into the receiver. Bert has the phone etiquette of a toddler. 

“You can try,” he says. “You know how our last fight went.” 

“That was in _Juniors_ ,” Brock says, aggrieved. 

"I beat your ass then and I'll beat it now," Tyler says, unfazed. "Try me." 

"I can win a fight," Brock says and slouches deeper into his couch. There's a plateful of carrot sticks balanced on his stomach because he's trying to be conscientious about eating his feelings. 

"You got your shit pushed in by Nolan Patrick," Tyler reminds him. 

"Whatever, it was just a high stick," Brock grumbles. "C’mon dude, I just wanna know about werewolves so I'm not being a douche to them."

“I’m not gonna help you hit on Riemsdyk,” Tyler says and Brock groans in frustration. 

"Bro," he whines. "I thought we were buddies. Seriously, what happened to handjob buddies?” 

“I have a boyfriend now,” Bert says. He sounds very smug. Brock hates him. 

“That has nothing to do with werewolf shit,” Brock snaps despite the fact he suspects this werewolf shit has a lot to do with boyfriends in general and Brock’s relationship to the concept of boyfriends specifically. "You coulda told me, I would’ve been cool about it." 

"Dude, no offense," Bert says offensively. "You've never been cool, like, even once."

"Fuck you," Brock says and hangs up on Bert's maniacal laughter.

-/-

“If I got tickets for Carly Rae Jepsen, would you come with?” Trevor asks. He’s staring at Ticketmaster with a frankly kind of terrifying intensity.

 _I’d probably go with you anywhere_ , Brock doesn’t say. He suspects that would be coming on a little too strong. Also, he’s trying very hard not to be pathetic. 

“Um, yeah,” he says instead. “Guess she’s okay, y’know.” 

“Carly is a fuckin’ queen, you cretin,” Trevor says and adds two tickets to his cart.

-/-

“You call me more now than you did when we were playing together,” Bert says thoughtfully. Brock considers hanging up on him without having said a single word. “What’s up with that?”

“Maybe it’s ‘cause I never liked you,” Brock says snippily. It’s possible it doesn’t make much sense, but whatever. 

“S’not what you said when I was holding your dick,” Bert counters and Brock scowls. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “I have some werewolf questions.” 

“I’m still not telling you about werewolf dick,” Bert answers immediately. “Go get Trevor to show you his dick if you wanna know so bad.” 

Brock sputters and tries not to think about Trevor or his dick. 

“I’m serious, man,” he manages at last, and Bert can apparently tell that he actually is, because he stifles his laughter and sucks in a noisy breath. “I don’t want to be an asshole about this, I’m just trying to understand some shit.” 

Bert huffs in his ear. 

“Yeah, fine, okay,” he says, sounding very reluctant to let go of the chance to mock the shit out of Brock. “Whaddaya want to know?” 

“Just like,” Brock says and waves a hand uselessly in the air, frustrated. “Everything? Can you guys lift cars? Can you smell colors?” 

“You have some weird ideas about what wolves can do, bud,” Bert says. “Wolves don’t even, like, see colors very well. Read a wiki article for once in your life.” 

“Are you colorblind?” Brock asks, and then, “Wait, is that one colorblind kid on the Avalanche a werewolf too?” 

“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Bert says. He’s laughing again. “We’re basically humans when we’re, y’know, human. Maybe we can smell a little better than you. And, like, pack instinct sticks around a little.” 

Brock frowns. It’s not as exciting as he’d hoped it would be. 

“Pack instincts?” he asks. 

“The whole pack cuddling shit,” Bert says, which doesn’t clarify a whole lot. “Dude, we really do just turn into a wolf sometimes, that’s about it. I’m hanging up, ‘Dre wants Chipotle.” 

“ _You’re the one that wants Chipotle_ ,” Brock hears distantly and then the phone beeps to tell him the call ended and he heaves a deep sigh. Bert’s phone etiquette is the worst in the fucking league, honestly. He drops his phone between the couch cushions to forget about for a while and goes to make some carrot sticks so he can eat his feelings some more. 

It occurs to him as he’s chopping up a carrot and he drops the knife and nearly skewers his foot. He stares down at it, spinning gently on the linoleum, and feels carefully around the edges of the thought. 

He thinks back over Trevor’s whole… everything. The way he tried to climb him when he’d had one beer too many and the way he _sniffed_ him. The way he’d touched Brock, a little more than the kind of just bros shit everyone is with each other after half a season trapped in each other’s company for so long. 

_We can smell a little better than a human_ , he can hear Bert saying. _The whole pack cuddling shit._

It’s a wolf thing, then. 

He’d maybe harbored a little bit of hope, is the thing. That maybe Trevor was interested. Kind of a long shot, Brock had known that all along, but it had been hard to interpret Trevor holding his hand as anything but at least a little bit of interest. 

But the touching is just a wolf thing. Something Trevor must do with everyone. Pack cuddling whatever - Trevor must see them all as his pack. 

He sighs and scrubs his face with the palms of his hands, knocking his glasses askew. Well, whatever, then. 

It’s not the end of the world, having a crush on someone that isn’t interested, but Brock is totally cool. He won’t make it weird at all.

-/-

“You’re into Riemer,” Haydn says and Brock spits his mouthful of coffee back into his mug.

“Oh, gross,” he says helplessly, looking down at his now-ruined mug of coffee. It’d just been rink-roast, kinda bitter and acidic and from a coffee maker that probably hadn’t been cleaned in a decade, but he can already tell it’s gonna throw off his whole vibe for the entire day. The he registers what Haydn said and like, oh, he has _bigger_ problems. “Oh, _no_.” 

“You are,” Haydn says. He’s grinning demonically. 

“I’m not,” Brock says quickly and whirls to go to the sink to dump his coffee out. Haydn follows him. 

“You totally are,” he says and taps his nose like he’s fuckin Santa Claus. “I can smell it.” 

Brock drops his mug in the sink with a clatter. 

“You can?” he squawks. 

Haydn grins at him so wide it crinkles his eyes up. 

“No,” he says. “That’s a bullshit myth, or Trevor would know you want to suck his soul out through his dick too.” 

“ _Keep your fucking voice down,_ ” Brock says shrilly. Haydn rolls his eyes at him. 

“It’s not like it’s a big deal,” he says, pretty boldly in Brock’s opinion. The kitchen area is pretty deserted, but De Haan is wandering around in the far corner making something in a blender while a trainer looks on dubiously, and the PR intern has a penchant for appearing out from under furniture at the least opportune moments for Brock specifically. One is never truly alone at the rink. “Y’know, as long as you treat Riems alright, at least.” 

Brock braces himself on the edge of the sink with both hands and takes a series of long, steady deep breaths until he feels better. Haydn is grinning at him and his teeth look… a little sharp. 

“Are you giving me a shovel talk?” he asks at last, because the last part had come out a little threateningly. “Is that a werewolf thing? We’re not even _dating_ , dude.” 

“It’s a bro thing,” Haydn says, leaning his hip against the edge of the counter and grins down at Brock. “Reims is my bro. But way to be, like, prejudiced about it.” 

Brock scowls and feels bad. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles and goes to pour himself more coffee. “But, again, I don’t know how to prove this to you, but me and Trevs are not dating.” 

“Not _yet_ ,” Haydn agrees. “So you gotta work on that.” 

“I really don’t,” Brock says and sips his new coffee. It’s comfortingly just as appallingly bad as his first cup. Maybe by the time he’s finished it he’ll have managed to exit this Twilight Zone that’s become their rink kitchen area. 

"You can go do woo," Haydn says, ignoring him totally, smiling broad and starry-eyed. Brock squints at him. 

"Do woo?" he asks. 

"You know," Haydn says airily, waving a hand in a vaguely unhelpful way. "Do woo. Make him like you with presents. Trevs like steak. Raw steak." 

"Um, thanks," Brock says faintly, not sure whether the idea of Trevor tearing into a hunk of raw steak is hot or not, and whether he's into it if so. He rallies with difficulty. "Do you mean, like, court him?"

Haydn grins brilliantly. 

"Yeah, do woo," he says with the breathless assurance of innocent stupidity. Brock doesn't know how he's supposed to reply to absolutely any of this. It feels kind of cruel to just tell Haydn that Trevor isn’t into him, because he really isn’t, even though Brock isn’t enjoying thinking about it much himself. Haydn just seems so happy about it. 

"Aight, dawg," he says feebly. If he agrees then Haydn will hopefully forget about this whole stupid thing and move on to harass someone else. 

“Wolf,” Haydn says helpfully. “Not dog, wolf.”

-/-

Haydn has no idea what he’s talking about. Brock is very definite on this.

Like, in general Haydn never has any idea what he’s talking about, on account of being a very loveable moron. He also has no idea what he’s talking about here, specifically. Trevor is not into him. If Brock were to give Trevor a raw steak, Trevor would call the cops on him, werewolf or no. 

Brock isn’t totally sure it’s not offensive, anyway. Werewolf stereotypes. He’d normally ask Trevor about it but, _like_. That’s not fucking happening. 

If he spends like twenty minutes covertly googling where he could go about buying Wagyu beef in Raleigh, that’s between him and God and his internet service provider. 

Brock is not going to be weird about this. He’s not going to be weird, and he’s not going to make things uncomfortable with Trevor just because Brock is an idiot with feelings for someone way out of his league and Haydn is an idiot reading way too much into the whole situation. 

It’s going to be totally chill. Brock can handle his shit, and Haydn will forget all about this whole thing as soon as some other flashy new personal drama in the team comes along, and then everything will be fine. 

It’s all _fine_.

-/-

Trevor crowds into his space after practice, before Brock’s stripped out of his pads. Brock is very glad that his pink cheeks from the bag skates are an excuse for how hot he goes when Trevor throws an arm around his shoulder.

He must be pretty rank. He knows Trevor is, certainly. He’s disappointed in his dick for not minding very much. His dick has no standards. 

“Lunch after practice?” Trevor asks, grinning with all his unfortunately cute snaggly teeth. 

This is most likely a great idea. A chance for Brock to prove to himself that he can handle his own stupid, messy crush and still be Trevor’s friend. He can do all that and not make it weird, and he’ll get over his weird crush because it’s only a weird crush, and then they can go win the Cup or something. 

He’s got plans. 

“Sounds great,” Brock says and smiles because he is so like, _functional_. He’s fine!

-/-

Trevor tucks an ankle around his under the table and smiles serenely as Brock keeps his head down towards his soup and valiantly doesn’t choke.

-/-

Brock is a mature and responsible adult - the fake Justin Williams in his head makes a skeptical face, but fake Justin Williams is not as hot as the real one and can _shut up_ \- and he can handle having unreciprocated feelings for someone. And he can also handle that someone being a werewolf.

He can be so cool about this. He is going to be super duper cool. 

“Haydn told me about, you know, the thing,” he says, and then promptly has to stifle the urge to punch himself in the thigh because, though he might deserve it, Trevor is spinning to stare at him and he doesn’t want to seem any more completely out of control and batshit insane than he already does. He’d somehow managed to focus so hard on not being weird about his crush that he’d forgotten not to be weird about the werewolf thing. 

It's possible that he is actually going insane, Brock decides. 

“He what?” Trevor squeaks. Brock tries to smile reassuringly at him. He’s pretty sure it comes out a little queasy. 

“He told me about, um, the thing,” he soldiers on anyway because he’s going to have to finish what he started. He waves at his own face vaguely, and really regrets doing this in the locker room. He can’t outright say, ‘Hey, Haydn told me you’re a werewolf and I want you to know I’m going to be cool about it.’ It’d at absolute best give him a really weird locker room rep. “I just, uh, wanted to let you know I was going to be chill about it.” 

Trevor blinks at him. His face is doing something very complicated that Brock can’t interpret beyond vague constipation. It’s leaving him a little pale. 

“He told you,” he repeats at last. 

“Um,” Brock says, and really wishes he had even the slightest ability to keep his mouth shut. “Yeah.” 

Trevor spends a little longer staring. The locker room is filling up around them and no one is paying any attention to them yet, but Brock is aware that’ll last precisely up until Martinook walks into the room and no longer. 

“And you’re, y’know, not…?” Trevor asks at last, and he’s very quiet. Brock swallows. 

“Um, no,” he says, and he can’t say that he’s ever really wished not to be human before. But, he supposes with forced optimism, at least he’s experiencing new things! “I’m, um, not.” 

“Oh,” Trevor says, even more quietly. His face is doing something that’s even more unreadable and also more constipated than before. It is not at all promising. 

“I can be chill about it,” Brock says hastily, and then winces and adds, “I _will_ be chill about it. Promise, dude.” 

“Yeah,” Trevor says vaguely, and smiles in a way that’s honestly kind of ghastly, and then Martinook is blowing in the doors screaming at the top of his lungs and there is no further chance for any conversation at all that wouldn’t be in danger of attracting his attention. Brock ducks for the cover of his stall while Marty descends on an unfortunate Slavin. 

Trevor hadn’t looked like he’d really believed Brock, about how he’d be chill. Brock silently vows that he will be the chillest dude about werewolves the world has ever seen.

-/-

He hates to even think about it, but he’s pretty sure Trevor is avoiding him.

Not that he’s surprised necessarily, because Brock had kind of sprung the whole thing on him pretty unexpectedly. Haydn had been unfairly chill about the whole thing, and Bert had basically been Bert about it, but that didn’t mean all werewolves were as cool about being outed like that. If Trevor needs time to deal, Brock isn’t going to bother him. 

Even if it leaves him sitting alone on the plane again. Brock is not a baby. He can handle his flight anxiety on his own, because he is an adult. 

He queues up Call Me Maybe and puts his head down until they’re at cruising altitude and he feels better.

-/-

“What would you do if you found out something about a teammate they don’t, um, seem to want you to know?” Brock asks carefully. “Something that’s kinda a big deal?”

“You know it’s okay to be gay, right?” Tye says, and Jamie bursts into obnoxious giggles. Brock groans in frustration and pushes his face into his sheets. He doesn’t know why he thought calling his brothers would be a good idea. He can’t tell them about the werewolf thing for one thing, and for another they’re both assholes. 

“I fucking know it’s okay to be gay, dickweed,” he mumbles. “Obviously. Just help me out, here.” 

“Bro, you think I know shit about shit?” Jamie asks breezily. “Incorrect. Just buy him a pizza or something.” 

“Dude, no,” Tye says and Brock lifts his head hopefully. “Pizza’s so not diet plan. Get him a car.” 

Brock drops his head back onto the sheets. 

“You guys are no fucking help,” he complains. 

“I think you’re overthinking the whole thing,” Tye says kindly. “Just chill out for like two seconds and be cool around him. He’ll realize you’re not gonna be an asshole eventually.” 

“But I wanna do something _now_ ,” Brock mutters rebelliously. He is kind of glad he called his brothers, he guesses. He feels a little better about the whole thing, even if they’re no help at all and he’s basically wasting his time talking around the idea of werewolves. 

“Suck it up, baby,” Jamie says. “Whatever, tell me about Raleigh though. I miss the barbecue.”

-/-

“Here,” he says, and holds out the signed copy of E•MO•TION he’d spent like an hour sniping back and forth on eBay for.

Trevor looks at it, and then up at him, and then back down at it. The pure, naked greed in his eyes when he looks at the curly signature in silver Sharpie is very gratifying. Brock suspects this is a much better idea than a pizza or a car. 

“Uh,” Trevor says and takes it gingerly. He cradles it in his hands like it’s made of glass. “Thank you, holy shit.” 

“No worries,” Brock says and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s an, um, please be my friend again present. Because I want you to be my friend again.” 

Trevor looks down at the CD and then back up at Brock and then down at the CD again, several times. His expression is difficult to read but Brock is hopeful. It doesn’t look angry, at least. 

“We never stopped being friends,” he says at last and smiles, not very widely, but still. “But I’ll try to stop being weird about the whole, like, thing.” 

Brock grins, maybe a little too broadly. He doesn’t care. 

“Oh thank fuck,” he says. “I missed you, bro. Plus signed copies of Kiss are like three times as expensive.”

-/-

James Van Riemsdyk has run Brock into the boards on every single play they could conceivably come into contact on, for the duration of the entire fucking game. They’re in the second intermission, and they’re _winning_ , but not by a wide enough margin for Riemsdyk to be this mad.

He seems to be mad at Brock specifically, also. Brock’s shoulder feels like it’s about to fall off, after how hard he’d hit the boards and then the ice when James had run him over like a goddamn train about a mile behind the puck. 

“Yo, is there a reason your brother has it out for my ass tonight?” he snaps to Trevor, trying to rotate his shoulder and wincing. It’s just a bruise, not even a sprain and definitely nothing serious, but it hurts like a motherfucker. He hadn’t been anywhere near the puck, either. He’s fine with getting pasted to the boards a little bit, it’s kind of his _job_ , but he likes it better when he actually deserves it. 

Trevor sighs shortly through his nose. He’s scowling, sharp little canines poking out. Brock frowns harder. His shoulder hurts. 

“Fucking Jamie,” Trevor mutters, apparently mostly to himself, and then reaches out to slap Brock gently on his un-tweaked shoulder. “I’ll talk to him about it. He’s got some weird ideas about some shit.” 

Weird werewolf ideas about weird werewolf shit, Brock surmises. 

“Yeah, please,” he says, as politely as he can, and submits with ill-grace to the trainer that comes over to force him to stretch his shoulder out the right way.

-/-

Brock probably has no right to, but he kinda misses Trevor’s werewolf touching thing. He hadn’t even realized how much Trevor had done it before until he’d stopped. Until he’d stopped trying to climb Brock at the clubs, stopped leaning on him during the plane rides.

He still shared his headphones, but I Really Like You just isn’t the same without Trevor’s bony elbows invading his space. With respect to Ms. Jepsen, Brock means. 

He pokes at the eBay listing for a signed copy of Kiss and then sighs and closes the tab. He can’t bribe Trevor into holding his hand again. 

Even if he _really really really_ wants to.

-/-

He catches Jake just before he sends a dick pic. This means that he has now seen Jake’s dick- he is not overly impressed. By the dick, the quality of the picture, or the fact that Jake was apparently sending dick pics while sitting on Brock’s nice couch where anyone could walk by and accidently spot the dick pic over Jake’s shoulder.

“Do _not_ send her a dick pic,” Brock says, maybe a little louder than he needs to. 

Jake jumps about a foot in the air and accidentally locks his phone. Brock reaches over and slaps it out of his hand, just in case. 

“Hey!” Jake says. 

“If you wanna end up on Deadspin, do it when you don’t live with me,” Brock says. “I’m making this the new house rule, okay? No dick pics unless you’re sure she wants a dick pic.” 

Jake scowls and dips to scoop up his phone, shuffling his feet. He’s very pink and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

“Since when are you responsible?” he demands grouchily. Brock magnanimously doesn’t take it personally. He’d probably be just as grumpy in Jake’s position. 

“Dude, seriously,” he says. “Believe me, it won’t work out for you and you’ll look like an ass.” 

“You look like an ass all the time,” Jake says meanly. It’s getting harder for Brock not to take it personally. “How don’t _you_ end up on Deadspin?” 

Brock considers him for a moment and decides that he is ready to be honest with him. 

“Okay, this may sound weird, but like… I picture Justin Williams in my head?” Brock says. “And then imagine what expression he’d make if he found out what I’m gonna do, and if he makes that one expression where his eyebrows do the thing? I don’t do what I was going to do.” 

Jake is quiet for a little while. 

“That… that’s like, insane?” he says slowly. Brock is ready to throw his hands up and walk away because he is _not_ interested in having his coping methods mocked by a twenty-year-old with the last name of a legume, but Jake keeps going. “But, um… I guess that makes sense.” 

“Wait,” Brock says. “Really?” 

“I _guess_ ,” Jake says and stuffs his phone in his pocket. He’s still pink and he’s avoiding Brock’s eyes, but whatever. “I’m going to bed. Don’t mention this to fucking anybody.” 

“Uh, yeah, whatever,” Brock says and watches Jake slam the door to his room. He thinks that just maybe Jake is throwing a temper tantrum. He is also pretty sure he’s passed on mentorship advice. 

Like, holy shit. He has a _rookie_.

-/-

Haydn gets sent back down and Brock comes over because he doesn’t need to be a werewolf to see how sad it makes Trevor. It’s not like it’s a hardship to sit at Trevor’s counter tapping idly through Instagram while Trevor stress-cooks a whole entire salmon. Brock wonders if it’s a werewolf thing, and decides asking is probably insensitive.

Which, speaking of. 

“Full moon’s coming up,” he says, tapping over to his calendar idly to look at the dates. Haydn had shown him the app that synced to his calendar the other day, after a lot of rolling his eyes. “Looks like there’s a dinner thing at Slavin’s, you want me to cover for you?” 

The crash of an entire salmon, platter and all, hitting Trevor’s kitchen floor makes him jump. 

“Haydn told you about that too?” Trevor demands. He’s staring at Brock and he actually looks a little upset. The salmon is a sad little pink mound around his feet and his shirt is tucked stupidly into his sweatpants. 

Brock blinks at him, bewildered. 

“What do you mean, _too?_ ” he asks, and then, “Wait, we already talked about this!” 

“Like hell we did!” Trevor says, looking scandalized. “I think I’d remember you telling me you know about werewolves!” 

“I literally brought it up in the locker room and then you got all weird about it,” Brock says, mystified. “Like that literally happened. Did you get a concussion recently or something?” 

“Fuck you,” Trevor says but his frown looks like one of confusion. “You… You were talking about me being a werewolf, that day?” 

“Uh,” Brock says. “Yeah? Obviously? What else would I have been talking about?” 

Suddenly Trevor looks very shifty. 

“Nothing,” he says. He is not meeting Brock’s eyes. 

“Trevor,” Brock says. 

“I’m just saying you could have been more clear,” Trevor whines. “You could have used your _words._ ” 

“I didn’t wanna out you in front of the whole locker room,” Brock argues. He’s breathless and antsy and none of it makes any sense, why Trevor would have been so upset if it hadn’t been about being a werewolf, why he’s being so shifty now. Brock doesn’t understand it. 

“And I thought you didn’t wanna out me either,” Trevor snaps and makes an articulately incoherent gesture with both hands. “But like, the _other_ way.” 

“Other way?” Brock asks blankly. 

“I thought you were letting me down gently!” Trevor says and then freezes. 

Brock can’t move. He can’t even blink. He’s not breathing, and he’s pretty sure his heart isn’t beating either. His stomach swoops, once, very hard. 

“Run that by me again?” he says and his voice comes out very strangled. 

Trevor is pink. He’s very pink, flushed a lovely even shade. He won’t meet Brock’s eyes. 

“I thought you were letting me down easy,” he repeats. 

It doesn’t make any more sense the second time around. Brock can’t make it fit right in his head. The individual words make sense, Brock is pretty sure they’re in English, but none of it makes sense because Trevor can’t mean what he’s implying. 

“I wasn’t letting you down easy,” he says at last because he does know that much at least. 

“I understand that _now_ ,” Trevor says, sounds aggrieved. The pink is deepening. Brock can’t look away and he’s kind of scared to breathe. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Brock continues carefully. “But, um, is there something to let you down easy… from?” 

Trevor stares at him. 

“Oh my god,” he says after a beat, reaches out to thread careful fingers in Brock’s hair, and pulls him forward to kiss him. 

“-Oh,” Brock says breathlessly when Trevor lets him go again, hopping back a quick step to look at him warily. He neatly avoids the salmon, which is still lying sadly on the floor. 

His mouth had been soft. Brock’s mouth tingles with it. He can feel Trevor’s clever fingers in his hair still. It’s scooped every thought right out of his head, nothing left but the impulse to lurch forward and kiss Trevor back. 

“If that, y’know, makes things clearer,” Trevor says after a beat. 

Brock starts to smile. It’s a big one, he can tell by the way it stretches his cheeks. He can’t help it, can’t pull it down off his face, and wouldn’t even if he could. 

“Nah,” he says. 

Trevor blinks. 

“... Nah?” he asks. 

“Nah,” Brock repeats. “Nah, I don’t get it at all yet. You should try to explain it to me again. You know, repetition and all that.” 

He watches Trevor put it together, watches the answering grin bare Trevor’s weird, adorable werewolf fangs. His heart is going a hundred miles a minute and he’s already breathless and probably glowingly red, and he doesn’t care at all. 

“Oh my god,” Trevor complains, but he’s stepping back over the abandoned salmon to kiss Brock again, so Brock doesn’t think he’s all that upset.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] They Came From Middletown, NJ!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808647) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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